Chapter 173:


    “Ms. Smith,” the woman said in a neutral tone, then leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. “The Administrator has arranged a live system stress test for tomorrow. 2:00 PM. Professor Nelson will be proctoring. He asked me to ensure you were avable.” A pause. “Ms. Carson.”


    Isolde’s stomach tightened. A live test. No room for error.


    “I’ll be ready.”


    “Good.” The secretary nodded and slipped away.


    Isolde felt a gaze burning into the side of her face. She turned. Grayson was staring at her, his expression a chaotic mixture of anger, confusion, and something that looked disturbingly like admiration.


    ?e?? ????e?????? с????????e???? ???? g???????????????.со??


    She ignored him. She adjusted her sling — her right arm still heavy in the cast — and walked toward the elevators. She needed air. She needed to get away from the toxicity of the Lancasters.


    She pressed the button. The doors slid open. She stepped in and pressed the button for the lobby.


    Just as the doors were sliding shut, a hand thrust between them. The safety sensor triggered and the doors bounced back open.


    Grayson stepped inside.


    The space instantly shrank. He filled the elevator with his presence, sandalwood and stress radiating from him. He stabbed the Close button.


    “When did you meet Sterling?” he demanded. No hello. No pleasantries.


    Isolde watched the floor numbers climb. “Around the time you were busy helping Belle pick out swimwear for your ‘business trip’ to the Maldives.”


    Grayson flinched. “Stop deflecting. You yed me. You let me think you were out of the game.”


    “I never said I was out,” Isolde said, turning to face him. “I said I gave up the seat. I didn’t give up the sky.”


    “Don’t get cocky,” Grayson snapped, his voice echoing in the metal box. “Tomorrow’s test — if you embarrass the Lancaster name, if you make SkyLine look ipetent —”


    “I don’t have to make SkyLine look ipetent, Grayson,” she cut him off, her voice low and lethal. “You did that the moment you put a thief in charge of design.”


    The elevator dinged. The doors opened.


    “Worry about your investment,” Isolde said, stepping out. “Because by tomorrow afternoon, the only thingunching will be yourwsuits.”


    The morning sun filtered through the ss ceiling of the Javits Center, casting long, sharp shadows across the breakfast mixer. The air smelled of roasted coffee and fresh pastries — a deceptivefort before the day’s war began.


    Isolde stood near a high-top table, nursing a cup of ck coffee in her left hand — her good hand. Her right arm, encased in heavy ster, was tucked against her chest in a ck sling. She was mentally running through the simtion parameters for the afternoon’s test: wind shear variables, hydraulictency, the patch code Effie had helped her spot.


    “Excuse me,ing through.”


    The voice was familiar. Too familiar.


    Isolde looked up. Grayson was cutting through the crowd, his hand firmly at the small of Belle’s back, guiding her toward the VIP section where Sterling’s secretary was checking names. He was clearly calling in favors, angling for a face-to-face.


    Belle looked radiant in a cream-colored dress, but her eyes were darting around nervously. Theynded on Isolde standing near the walkway.


    A flicker of malice crossed Belle’s face — quick, sharp, and deliberate.


    .


    .


    .